


well wishers (don't let me be gone)

by lizzy_stardust_18



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Connor Lives AU, I will add tags as I go, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, also spoiler that's not really a spoiler: somebody is DEAD for most of this fic, but is it permanent? who knows, if that wasn't apparent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17535233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzy_stardust_18/pseuds/lizzy_stardust_18
Summary: "I wish it had been me instead of you, Connor."





	well wishers (don't let me be gone)

Rows upon rows of saplings extend on into the distance in the new orchard. They dug their roots in deep before they ever broke through the surface of the earth, and now that they taste the air and sun, it is almost as though they can touch the sky. Their lives are longer than they can possibly imagine, and their potential is infinite. The boy walking through the trees once felt the same, but that was many years ago, back when he was a little kid in the front seat of a truck that was soon to drive far, far away from him. Now he feels many emotions at once, but he more resembles the seed in the earth than the sapling reaching for the sun. 

 

His shoes barely make a sound as he walks down the path to the far edge of the orchard. His mind is troubled, swimming with a million thoughts and regrets. He found peace here once. Now he finds only reminders of his mistakes. His many, many mistakes. His heart aches when he thinks too hard about any one of them. Maybe he was forgiven, but he can’t just forget what he did. He doesn’t deserve to. 

 

The rows of trees eventually end, and he reaches the edge of the orchard. He isn’t sure how or why he got there, or what he is going to do now that he’s here, but he’s going to keep walking aimlessly until he finds an answer. It’s all too painfully reminiscent of a day he tries never to think about. Just like that day, he feels like he can see the entire world before him and nowhere in it can he see a place for himself. He supposes that’s how it has to be, though. That’s how it is when you’re a scared, soggy puzzle piece that doesn’t fit anywhere. You just wait around, hoping you’ll be placed somewhere where you make  _ sense _ , but eventually you’ll be left in a pile of your own with no one to connect to. 

 

He wanders down the path, grounding himself in the soft crunch of old leaves underneath his feet. How long ago did they grow, green and hopeful? How long ago did they fall? How long have they been rotting on the ground, he wonders? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that he grew and grew under the sun, reaching, just like the branches of a tree, and now he is here again, right back where he started, in the heart of a place where he planted a lie. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. The afternoon is still bright, but the air is growing crisp and chilly around him. He is certain that his cheeks and ears must be unpleasantly pink, as they always are this time of year when he steps outside. He turns his head towards the sun, but his face is still freezing.  _ Why does autumn sun always feel so cold?  _

 

He sees a small, narrow path forking out from the main path, and he pauses. Where might this new path lead? He isn’t sure, but his feet give him no choice, and soon he is moving on autopilot. Sometimes his body just does this, it moves him without granting him agency in the matter. Sometimes it leads him up a tree, sometimes it leads him to sit at a table and spin a better story than the one that exists, but it always leads him to this metaphorical  _ here _ . There is nowhere else he can ever turn. Even after these past few years, life always brings him back to the base of a tree. He thought he could grow beyond it, but it has continued to define him to this day, and now here he is. 

 

The path leads him past a field that he is sure was once golden, but is now just a series of dried-up husks. He tries not to read into its appearance too far. It will only depress him further. He lets himself get lost in thought as he passes the field, but it’s a mistake, because before he knows it, he is crying, the tears turning cold as soon as they leave his eyes and roll down his cheeks. He’s an ugly crier, he always has been, and even though there is no one here to judge him, he still wants to cover his face. 

 

He makes it past the edge of the field before he realizes that he just cannot stop crying. It’s like a tap has been turned on inside of him, but it’s old and rusty and there’s no way to turn it back off without a lot of effort and strength that he just does not have. He is a weak person. His therapist would tell him that that is not a healthy thought process to get into, and he would respond that no, no it isn’t, and he’d try. He’d really try to break out of it. And maybe he’d succeed for a bit. But then he’d fall back down, right back here, where his soul belonged. Maybe Jared would call it a “save point” if he hung out with Jared more. But Jared, despite the fact that they’d mended their fences, seemed to want to stay behind his. Once bitten, twice shy, he guessed, but had he really “bitten” Jared that hard? 

 

He nears what appears to be the end of the path, and he makes out an object in the distance. As he grows nearer, he makes out the shape of a small fountain, large enough for at most two people to sit upon if they sat across from each other. He steps over to it, his footsteps leaving small indents in the dirt. He sits down, running his hand over the cool stone of the fountain’s rim beside him. The water in the fountain is stagnant, with leaves floating at the top, drowned beetles at the surface lining the edges of the fountain and, most notably, a layer of old, tarnished pennies and nickels coating the bottom. A wishing well. He takes a moment to look at all of the coins at the bottom. How many of their wishes came true? How many people walked away from here with longing in their hearts for something they could never have? He is overcome by the urge to dip his hand into the water and just touch the coins, to feel the wishes that were so deliberately placed there, but he decides against it. 

 

He sighs and looks around. His tears have dried just a little, but the back of his throat still tastes like snot and he sniffles a bit. His nose runs. He wipes it away on his glove. All around him, the world feels still and frozen. When he was at this orchard last, right before the summer started, it was brimming with life and hope. Now it just feels like a world holding its breath, possibly never exhaling. When the world is still like this, he feels the urge to fill the silence with something, anything. Just to prove he’s there, and he’s more than a casual observer of life. 

 

“Hi,” he says to the empty air. “It’s been a while since I was here. I um, I don’t know if you’d hang around here. You’re probably onto bigger and better things but um,” his fingers clutch the edge of the fountain and his knuckles turn white. His palms feel so cold through his gloves that the sensation is sharp. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you. What books you liked. What movies you must have seen. How you uh, you might have done in college. I’m in college now! I got a scholarship.” He wipes his nose again. “I might lose it though. I didn’t do too well in all my--all my exams.” He looks down at the ground and toes a leaf with his boot. 

 

“Sometimes I wonder how you might have done if you had the chance to go to college. I bet you could have gone anywhere you wanted.” He sniffles again. “I just wish you knew how precious your life was. Or-or maybe you did, and maybe you just didn’t feel worthy of it. Because I know that one. I feel it all the time.” He laughs mirthlessly to himself. “You know, sometimes I think we should have traded places. I really do.” His eyes train on a single spot on the ground and he sees a flash of something metallic. He bends over to pick it up, and sure enough, it’s a penny, left haphazardly on the ground by the fountain, almost directly under his feet. Placed there like destiny. He smooths the dirt off of it with the fingertips of his glove and regards it for a moment before turning his body slightly. When he speaks, the words do not sound big and important, they are more like a whisper in the wind, something nostalgic and wistful. 

 

“I wish it had been me instead of you, Connor.” 

 

When the dime hits the bottom of the fountain, the water ripples and then grows still. The wind blows through the trees and over the open field, but it doesn’t blow through the hair of the despondent boy who sat at the fountain. He and his footprints are nowhere to be found, and the penny at the bottom of the fountain is the only proof that he was ever there. 

 

\--

 

The light hurts Connor Murphy’s eyes when he wakes up in bed. He blinks blearily and, upon seeing the light streaming in from the window, promptly rolls over and tugs his blanket over his head. He doesn’t even have to look at his alarm clock to know that it’s past 1:00 in the afternoon already. His head has the familiar fuzzy feeling of a hangover settling into it, and his throat still burns from the amount of weed he’d smoked the night before. Great. He’s gonna feel  _ wonderful _ when he inevitably has to get out of bed. 

 

He smells something cooking downstairs and his stomach lurches. Of course. Family breakfast. His mom has been planning this for a long time, and now they’re probably all waiting downstairs for Connor to get up and join them. He knows Zoe and his dad won’t care if he goes down there or not, but his mom would never let them start without him, and neither Zoe or Connor’s dad would be capable of facing that hurt look she gets in her eye when the family rejects one of her efforts at bonding. It’s why they all go along with whatever fad she’s discovered on the internet lately. Some days it really feels like she is the only thing holding the family together. Everyone else certainly is willing to break off from each other, but they can’t leave her marooned. Disappointing her isn’t an option for any of them, least of all Connor. 

 

So, with a soft “mmmph,” he rolls out of bed and wipes his face with his hands. He’s exhausted as hell, but he knows any moment now someone is going to come knocking on his door, and he’d rather not cause a scene this morning. The family has already been fraught with tension for weeks over Connor’s Daily Fuckups and he is so, so tired of being the center of attention. The familiar thought of  _ the fights would stop if you just disappeared _ flickers through his mind and he tries his best to shrug it off. It’s been getting harder lately, however. That’s how it always is in the summer for Connor. Everything is shrouded in gray, even though the sun is shining, and he doesn’t see a point in getting out of bed and entering a house full of screams and tears, but he doesn’t have anywhere to really  _ go _ outside of the house. The only person who texts him (besides his mom in the family group chat, that is) is his dealer, a girl with an industrial piercing named Quinn, and his texts with her are always very short and to the point. (She, unsurprisingly, doesn’t really like talking to him. Because who  _ would _ .) 

 

He goes through the motions of slipping on his hoodie and trying to resist the urge to get high before going downstairs. His throat is still raw and burning from last night’s intoxication and he really doesn’t want him being high to be that much of a spectacle. Not this morning. Not when he, seemingly, has the energy to actually try to be a person. It had been awful for most of this week. Connor had been unable to get out of bed until late in the afternoon most days, and he wasn’t even sleeping most of the time. He’d just lie there in an insomniac haze, watching the shadows on the wall change shape as the sun rose and fell. And then when he had the energy to get up, he would flip from exhausted to manic and pace around his room, unable to control his restless energy. 

 

Connor winces as he recalls last night’s episode of Connor Freaking Out. He had gone down to the living room to ask Zoe...something, he couldn’t even remember what it was at this point, and she had ignored him until he had had to pull her headphones out of her ear, at which point she had cried out, yelling in his face, and then ran up to her room. Connor had been overcome with rage and had run upstairs after her, banging on her door over and over again, shouting himself hoarse until his dad had had to grab him from behind and pull him away in a movement that was half bear hug and half straitjacket. “Control yourself, Connor,” his dad had growled in his ear as Connor sobbed and tried to break free from his grip. It had taken his dad several minutes of coaxing to get Connor back into his room, at which point he had gotten extremely high and passed out on his bed. 

 

The night before comes to him in bits and pieces at a time, and he groans at his own inability to function before trying to shake the thoughts out of his head. Today, at least, he is okay. He can get out of bed, put on his clothing, and blearily make his first steps down the carpeted staircase, taking comfort in the fact that his socks don’t make a loud noise when they squish gently into the soft stairs. It’s ironic, on days where he can try to be okay, he makes himself even smaller and quieter than he does on his bad days. He feels like he will need to be extra quiet and small today. 

 

He makes his way into the kitchen to find his mother bustling about, busying herself with various pots and pans. Jesus, is she trying to feed an army? He stifles a yawn and twists his hand up in the sleeve of his hoodie so that it covers most of his hand like a glove. His mother turns around with a swish of red hair and beams at him so brightly that it makes his chest ache. God, she’s always trying so hard with him, isn’t she? She thinks he doesn’t notice how she trains her face to be extra happy when he’s around, as though maybe she can compensate for his misery. Little does she know. 

 

“Morning, Con!” she says cheerily. “You can go ahead and sit down at the table, I’ll be ready in a moment with the rest of the breakfast. What do you want to drink?” 

 

“Um, orange juice?” 

 

“Sure thing! It’s in the fridge!” she says, gesturing. “Oh, Connor, don’t forget to take your pills this morning! She makes her way over to the cabinet (locked, of course, because who would trust  _ Connor _ with pills?) and gets out his Adderall and antidepressants. “Here you go honey!” she says, tipping the pills into her hand and handing him one of each. He tries to work his features into a smile and heads over to the fridge with the pills in one hand. He manages to get the orange juice out of the fridge before someone speaks again. 

 

“You need to remember your pills on your own, Connor. When you’re in college your mom can’t administer them to you,” Connor’s dad says from his spot at the table. He takes a long slurp of his coffee and Connor tenses and grits his teeth. He could really, really go without his dad getting on him first thing in the morning.  _ I know I know I know I’m a fuckup I’m the worst thing that ever happened to this family you’re ashamed to have me as a son isn’t that what you want to say to me come on say it  _ he tries to stop his thoughts from rushing and he focuses almost completely on getting the orange juice out of the fridge and setting it down on the island in the middle of their kitchen. He robotically moves towards the cabinet and gets a glass down and fills it with orange juice, but his hands are shaking and his head feels like it’s full of cotton and his jaw hurts from clenching it so hard and some part of his head is still buzzing with how painfully aware he is of his situation. He wants to get high. He feels like his family is staring at him, their gazes boring into his skin. His face feels hot and he looks down.  _ Take the pills take the pills come on.  _ He swallows the pills with great difficulty, all too aware of how pained his expression must be. 

 

He makes his way over to the table and avoids looking at any of his family members as he sits down. He sees Zoe in his peripheral vision, arms crossed and looking down, more statue than girl. She’s probably been like that ever since he entered the room. Perfect. Really, it’s just great that that’s the effect he has on his family members. That bodes really well for the rest of the day. He puts his head down on his arms to avoid looking at his dad or sister and he begins to jiggle his leg uncomfortably under the table. 

 

“Connor,” he hears his dad say gently, “come on. You’re shaking the table.” He sighs and stops jiggling his leg and settles for tapping his fingers incessantly on one of his forearms. He still feels like they’re staring at him, so he closes his eyes and squeezes them shut. He is trying. He is  _ trying _ . Today he has a little energy, today he can be okay. Even if all current evidence points to the contrary. He feels the thump of a dish on the table and doesn’t need to look to know that his mom has set their breakfast down and they need to act like a family. He drags himself up and rubs his face. He can do this. They can be all Norman Rockwell for a single day, can’t they? He doesn’t have to ruin every meal, right? 

 

“Right,” his mom says, clasping her hands together and smiling in a way that makes Connor’s heart break for her. She is trying even harder than he is to have a normal family breakfast. “So I’ve made a quinoa bake with eggplant and potatoes. I’m trying something new here, I’ve read that a gluten-free diet can improve,” her eyes flicker for a split second towards Connor, “ _ mood _ , and I think we can all use a little pick-me-up so, here we are!” She gestures enthusiastically towards the meal. Zoe looks unimpressed, their dad looks like he’s masking disgust. 

 

“Looks great, Cynthia,” their dad says in a strained voice. She beams at him and scoops some of the bake onto his plate. Connor tries to make eye contact with Zoe as if to say “are you seeing this shit” but she’s refusing to look at him, which he supposes is fair. They had fought pretty severely the night before, and he can feel the aftermath of said fight in the air all around them like an oppressive fog. The only one who can even try to manage to be cheery is their mom, who is happily doling out her meal, which manages to be equal parts gluey and burnt at the same time. He picks up his fork and resigns himself to the fact that he is going to have to ignore his taste buds for the next half hour or so. 

 

The room falls silent as they all set about the task of shoveling their mom’s attempt at food into their mouths, trying not to grimace at the taste. It’s not super bad, Connor decides, plus he likes eggplant so he can handle a little bit of this unfortunate dish. Plus, he can’t really afford to be a complete dick to his mom when she’s sitting there all hopeful, awaiting praise that will only be reluctantly given for efforts that arguably, are greater than any of their own. Connor knows that if he and Zoe and their father had it their way, they would never eat together. They would barely even see each other. But their mom is determined to make this a family occasion, so they had to try.  _ Connor _ has to try. 

 

Their dad finishes first, eating at super-human speeds, and when his wife offers him more, he politely declines, opting instead to open the morning newspaper. Their mom clears her throat and addresses Zoe. “So, Zoe, you have band camp in a few weeks, right?” 

 

“I have band camp at the end of July,” she says in a clipped tone, “it’s June.” 

 

“Oh. Right.” Connor wants to kick Zoe for the crestfallen look that flashes across their mother’s face at that, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at Zoe. He looks down at his plate and tries to find shapes in the weird gooey residue left on it. “Connor,” she says, “have you been interested in doing that swim clinic I emailed you about? It’ll be super fun!” 

 

“Oh um,” he racks his brain for a better answer than the one he initially wanted to give, “maybe? I uh, I don’t really like swimming but yeah it could be fun.” 

 

“That’ll be a really good opportunity for you!” she says, smiling brightly at him. The cracks in her facade are apparent, but god she is putting a hell of an effort into maintaining it. He offers her a small smile and the conversation fades. He looks down again. Their mom clears her throat. “Larry, can I have that newspaper when you’re done?” 

 

“Sure, just let me finish this section first.” 

 

“Do you really have to read the obituaries?” She asks, scoffing a little. He ignores her and straightens up, his brow furrowing. 

 

“Oh god, there’s a kid in here.”

 

“In the obituaries?” 

 

“Yeah, he went to Connor and Zoe’s high school.” 

 

“What’s his name?” Zoe asks, her eyes widening. 

 

“Evan Hansen. He was in your year, Connor.” 

 

“How did he um, what happened to him?” Connor asks, his voice coming out cracked and strained. 

 

“He...well it says here he killed himself.” 

 

“ _ Killed _ himself?  _ Evan _ ? But he was always so friendly I…” Zoe trails off, looking hopeless. She sinks down into her seat. “I mean, I never really talked to him but god. I just can’t believe he’s gone.” 

 

Connor stares down at his lap, obsessively flicking his spinner ring. He watches his dad gingerly hand the newspaper to their mother, who reads the article with pursed lips. She puts a hand over her mouth. “His poor mother. We should do something for her. God, I can’t imagine it. Losing your child I just…” she reaches out and squeezes Connor’s shoulder, not really looking at him but letting him know she’s there. His chest tightens, and he holds out his hand, silently asking for the paper, and she hands it to him, her eyes moist with the beginnings of unshed tears. He skims the article, the words burning themselves into his mind. 

 

_ In Loving Memory _

_ Evan Hansen, 17, a rising senior at Arbor Grove High, passed away due to suicide in Ellison State Park several days ago. He is survived by his mother, Heidi Hansen, who is requesting privacy for the family during this trying time.  _

 

He stares incredulously at the picture of the boy in the newspaper. He’s wearing a park ranger outfit and giving two thumbs up to the camera, grinning widely. Connor had seen him in the hallways at school, but he’d never really noticed him until now. His smile had been so bright, and all that was left of it was what had been recorded in photographs. On this page, he looks like a ghost, like an echo, like a reflection that remains in the water after the person casting it had gone. A few days ago, Evan might have felt the sun on his skin, might have felt the breeze in his hair. But now he’s dead. Connor’s thoughts begin to race, but one thought sticks out more than all of the others as he stares at the dead boy’s photo:  _ Evan was trying so hard to have a good day _ . 

 

Connor lets out a small, barely audible choking noise. His shoulders heave, and hot tears well up in his eyes and begin to roll down his cheeks. His mother immediately notices and stands up. “Oh, honey, are you okay? Did you know him?” He shakes his head, unable to explain why exactly he is so anguished over the death of someone he doesn’t even know. It feels like something within him that he has pushed down so far for so long is coming up and wrenching its way out of him. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperate to stop the tears from flowing. He knows all too well that Zoe and his dad must be watching him in horror, and he wants to curl up into himself and hide from their stares. He knows it’s an overreaction, he knows it must be overblown, but it’s like a stopper within him has been removed and everything he’s been trying to hold in is coming out in quick, gasping sobs. Just like last night, he is helplessly swept along in a wave of emotion, only now it’s sorrow rather than rage. 

 

He feels his mother’s hands on his shoulders, and he leans into her touch, still burying his face in his hands. “It’s just...it’s just…” he struggles to get the words out, “he was trying so hard, I can tell, and-and so am I. I’m trying, I’m trying, Mom! And I can’t--I can’t keep trying like this.” She wraps her arms around him, and he grips her shirt, sobbing relentlessly against her. She rocks him back and forth. 

 

“Oh honey, oh honey,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. She squeezes him tightly and then releases him a little in favor of lifting his chin and smoothing his cheeks with her hands, wiping his tears away. It’s such a gentle, motherly gesture that it prompts a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks. “Sweetheart,” she says, “have you ever felt like--I mean recently have you felt like…” she trails off, but Connor knows exactly what she means. He nods weakly. 

 

“All summer,” he croaks, casting his eyes downward. 

 

“Oh, baby,” she says, pulling him into another embrace. He closes his eyes and lets her hold him. “We’re gonna get you help, okay?” He nods silently. “We’ll get you help,  _ won’t _ we, Larry?” she says, giving her husband a pointed look. He nods gravely, his expression stony but visibly concerned. 

 

“Connor, I’m so sorry we didn’t know,” he says, clearing his throat. “We’ll do anything you need.” Connor sneaks a glance at Zoe, whose eyes are blown wide open and whose lips are pressed tightly together. She gulps and opens her mouth as if to speak but then closes it again. Fitting that she’d have nothing to say about this. 

 

“We’ve got you, okay Connor?” his mom says. “You’re going to be okay.” He doesn’t know if he can believe her when she says that, but he lets her keep holding him. Maybe he’ll believe it eventually. Regardless, it’s like a massive weight is coming off of his shoulders, and his tears flow freely once more. 


End file.
